Ted moved in to sit among the detritus of his father’s professional life, all the while keeping an eye on the flames, which threw off some cool blues and oranges from the posters, releasing god knows what chemicals into the air. “You sure that flue is open? C’mon, Dad, there’s stuff to be proud of here. You’re part of the culture that survives to this day-‘a little dab’ll do ya’? That was classic. Those aren’t just advertisements, those are cultural touchstones, those are time machines.”
“Most of these aren’t mine. I don’t know why I have them. Your mother must’ve saved this shit. She was always proud of the worst shit. She didn’t understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Forget it.”
“No. What?”
“I don’t wanna bad-mouth her anymore. It’s over.”
“What, Dad, what didn’t Mom get?”
Marty looked at his son and sighed. “How ashamed I was.”
Ted could see that was true. And he saw his parents unravel right there before his eyes over this fundamental difference in perception. There were so many other problems between those two, but this one, her goodwill attempts to give her man pride in his achievements that only brought him more helpings of shame, this one hording, heartbreaking expression of love that would have only made Marty’s self-inflicted wounds deeper, was enough. This is how love kills. Ted felt he might sob. He felt he was under deep dark water, so he felt for the ground with his feet and pushed back for the surface, trying for the light. He was aware that his voice was half an octave higher all of a sudden, like he was a full-of-shit glad-hander, a salesman, but like his mom before him, he wanted to save his dad. At least for the moment. Was it love or lack of courage? Was there a difference? He didn’t know. Maybe more air and more light would save them all, save them or kill them once and for all.
“‘Double your pleasure, double your fun’? Another classic. I remember those twins. Who could forget the Doublemint twins? Volkswagen-‘Think Small.’ Classic.”
“Not mine.”
“You made Hitler’s car the best-selling one in America. Who can do that? You! I mean, come on.”
“Stop. Makes me want to throw up.”
Ted pulled from the wreckage a poster that would have gone with the infamous “Daisy” campaign for Lyndon Johnson in 1964. The political ad depicted a young girl picking petals off a daisy, morphing into a countdown of an atom bomb explosion at the doomsday hand of the Reds. It might have been the first political attack ad on TV. It was certainly one of the best. A chilling piece of propaganda. Ted remembered and now imitated LBJ’s Texas twang from the voiceover of the ad-“We must love each other or die. Way to rip off Auden, Dad.”
“Goebbels got nothing on me, boy, I was paying attention during the war.”
“Do you know how much I hated you for this ad? I was eighteen. If my friends at Columbia had found out, they woulda killed me.”
“They woulda stuck a fucking daisy in your rifle? You were all a bunch of pussies. Is that one of the million things you need a fucking apology for?”
Ted felt himself drawn into the old family undertow of battle, but checked himself, and checked his dad, and saw the man there, the anguished man. Often, Marty appeared to Ted like one of those cheap renderings of Jesus you can see in storefronts in Washington Heights or heavily Catholic areas of the city. You stare at Jesus and tilt your head slightly and the Son of Man’s expression changes. It’s super kitschy, but mesmerizing. Blacklight Jesus. Ted filed that under good names for bands.” Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Blacklight Jesus. Ted once saw one on the Columbia campus that had Jesus turn into Satan if you moved your gaze just a millimeter. Jesus. Satan. Jesus. Satan. And that’s how Marty always was to him, shimmering back and forth between identities malevolent and benevolent. Dad. Man. Dad. Man. Ted realized the actual man, Marty, was somewhere in between the extremes, but could never fix him there, could never stop him from shimmering back and forth between savior and accuser. Ted made a committed choice to keep his eyes fixed on the man for the moment, the man in pain. He patted his dad’s shoulder.
“There’s no shame in writing for money, Marty. Put food on the table.”
“Put you through college.”
“Put me through college.”
“So you could throw peanuts at Puerto Ricans.”
“So I could throw peanuts at Puerto Ricans.”
“Well, one thing was true-we ‘Tareyton smokers would rather fight than switch.’ Maybe we shoulda thought that one through a bit more.”
“You’ve ‘taken a licking and kept on ticking,’ my man.”
“‘A man in a Hathaway shirt’ does.”
“You do ‘deserve a break today.’” Marty paused. “Then please, Ted, give me a break.”
Marty patted Ted on the head. “Burn it all,” he proclaimed. “The lifetime lack-of-achievement award for the first time this year goes to a duo, a father-son team from Brooklyn, New York…”
He threw some more magazines on and squirted lighter fluid and got quiet. Ted saw that Marty had a bag of marshmallows to whimsically complete the self-lacerating immolation. Marty spoke very softly now, his eyes never leaving the dancing flames. “You think I’m the only one who needs forgiveness, Ted? You get to have more life and you don’t even know what to do with it. You better beg my forgiveness for that. I made you.” Savior. Accuser. Savior. Accuser.
“That’s right, you did produce me, as well as, perhaps, ‘the one beer to have when you’re having more than one.’ Want me to get in the fire, too, with the rest of your crappy output?”
Ted went up to the fire and put his hand into the flames. Marty screamed, “No! Your hand, your beautiful little hand!” Ted pulled his hand back to show he’d only been lighting his joint, not performing a self-inflicted medieval punishment. He smiled and took a big hit, and, as he held in the smoke, offered a toke to his dad.
“The pot. No. Never. I have pills.”
“C’mon, Dad, a little doob’ll do ya… this is what they call peer pressure, old man. All the cool dads are doing it. This is how parents and kids bond in the seventies.”
“Are you always high, son?”
“Not always, but that is my ambition, yes.”
Something sounded throughout the house, like an electric shock, like the wrong answer on a game show times ten. Ted jumped.
“What the fuck was that? Smoke alarm?”
“Doorbell.”
“That’s the doorbell? Sounds like the end of the world.”
Ted left Marty there by the fire to go see what the end of the world was all about.
23.
When Ted opened the door to find Mariana there, his first thought was “I don’t know what I’m wearing.” And he didn’t look down; he had a bad feeling and didn’t want to face it, kept his eyes on the girl, who said, “Hello, Theodore.” Ted thought he remembered a lengthy negotiation that had ended in an agreement to call him “Ted.” Maybe not.
“Hello, the death nurse.”
“Grief counselor.”
“Hello, the death counselor.”
She smiled patiently and would not be baited or charmed.
“Very nice of you to stay with your dad.”
“Very nice of you to… bring… death, you know, to the home, make housecalls, uh.”
“How long will you stay?”
Ted became aware of an overwhelming urge to impress this woman, like enter a hot-dog-eating contest for her, and he shook his head because he knew that thought had no business here at this time. Instead he said, “You know what, as long as it takes. That’s the kind of who I am. I’m a giver. That’s what I do. I give.”